I’ve heard time described as a line, a procession, a race, and a road with no return. But to me, it feels more like something we scale over and over again. Imagine the year as a climbing wall: not a straight ascent, but a circular one, like a stone cylinder we loop around endlessly. Each month is a section of the wall, marked with small grips: the handholds and footholds we use to keep going. Here’s a poem I wrote. I’d say it is a work in progress, but I’ll probably never touch it again. However, I think it brings to life the magic of the visual, and maybe you can relate.
Time is not a line we follow,
but a loop we climb along.
Not a road with an end,
but a ring of stone and sky
we scale again and again.
January rises with cold resolve.
A frozen grip appears
not warmth, but rest,
not fire, but pause.
A day to breathe.
A chance to remember
by holding still.
“We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
February is short and sharp.
The wall is steep.
But even here
a ledge appears,
a pause in motion,
a moment spared
for breath, for memory.
March stretches long.
The climb is slow.
There are few easy holds,
yet light returns.
Longer days mean
we rise faster,
even as the path stays hard.
In April, the stone is slick.
Rain runs down the ridges.
But the wall begins to bloom.
There are green edges,
tiny handholds grown
from what once seemed bare.
We rise through renewal.
May brings wind and whispers of warmth
as the sun leans in.
We find familiar ledges like
the Rites of Spring,
and BBQ Memorials.
Each day warmer,
each grasp more sure.
And summer?
Summer brings fire.
June, July, August
the sweat on our skin,
the strength in our limbs,
the wall warm beneath our fingers.
We move with music in our hearts.
Then comes another turn as
September curves the climb again.
The air begins to cool,
and we notice
the leaves are loosening their grip
as we tighten our own.
Reflection becomes our harness.
October crackles.
The wind tells stories.
Masks come on
not to hide
but to honor.
We dance with shadows
on this part of the stone.
November hushes.
Our minds quieted by Gratitude.
Hope becomes a rope
binding us
to each other,
to the wall of time,
to the truth that even cold stone
can still hold warmth.
And then,
December.
The ledge before the loop begins again.
We see our breath.
We see the stars.
We see the whole arc
behind us
and say:
We are not on this wall to conquer it.
We are here to learn its shape:
to make of time
a thing we can hold,
a rhythm we can trust.
We ascend not to escape,
but to return
wiser,
weathered,
whole.
Because in this ascent,
every hold is holy.
Every reach is a reason.
Every month,
a moment we are pulled
not down
but onward and upwards.
This poem grew from the idea of “grip days,” small points of meaning, memory, or reprieve that help us move through the year. These days might be cultural, personal, joyful, or bittersweet. What matters is not what they are but that they are there to hold onto. Some grips are bright: a ritual meal, a shared laugh, a well-earned day off. Others are quieter: a walk, a call, a breath. They shift with each year and each person, but they connect us to time and to each other.
The rest of the wall can be cold, blank, or even punishing, especially when meaning is scarce. When the grips are fewer, the climb is harder. And still, we learn to find, or make, our holds. This metaphor helps me make sense of time. We’re NOT racing against a clock. We’re NOT constantly rising and meeting our full potential. Sometimes we are just holding on for dear life, and there’s dignity in that.
We climb not to escape the cycle, but to become familiar with it. To mark the wall. To map the way for one another by adding new grips for those who follow.
Time doesn’t carry us. We carry ourselves.
Hand over hand,
Day by day,
Grip by grip.
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